SWAK
by Firestar9mm
Summary: There was only one consistent reminder of her that he carried with him all the time.  His to carry, his forever-—the first hint that this would be his life from now on.  There was no normal…


**Author's Introduction:**

Subtitle this: "Star was tired of not writing anything."

This is actually an old story I had once intended to use in an LJ-community contest entry, but the thing about the _Resident Evil_ series, and ergo anything I write for it, is that nothing really stays dead.

Except for Bravo team. Better luck next time, Bravos! *^_~*

My screenwriting professor from ten years ago (ouch…) said everyone is allowed **one** unbelievable premise in a story. This fic is mine.

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><p><strong><span>S.W.A.K.<span>**

_A Resident Evil ficlet by Firestar9mm_

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><p><em>In the sickness of you, I'm just a white blood cell fighting like hell for you.<em>

(Panic! At the Disco, _Kaleidoscope Eyes_)

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><p>Leon was getting used to the aftermath, the slowing of his breath and heart rate, the gradual awareness of every ache and pain that made him realize he was still alive, but he didn't think he'd ever get used to the sight of her.<p>

Even after all this time, Claire was a sight for sore eyes, and for a moment he felt like he'd just woken up from the last seven years. She gave him a smile he recognized, something tired and triumphant, and her eyes were as blue as the early morning sky they stood under. Looking at her, a riot of color against loose sand and wispy unorganized clouds, he had the sudden irrational thought that the minute she left his side, the sky would darken, the world turn gray.

Of course, putting it that way probably wasn't the smartest thing to say right at this moment. Instead, the simplicity that dictated Agent Kennedy's every movement for the last seven years took over and presented him with the shortest route from his thoughts to reality. "What are you up to?" he asked, jerking his head towards the waiting chopper. "Need a lift?"

But she only smiled, turning to indicate her own ride, waiting beyond them. "_I_ have a limousine waiting," she purred importantly, which only made it cuter to see little Rani Chawla waving vigorously, calling Claire's name as she waited beside a Buick Riviera that had seen better days.

It took everything in him not to seize her wrist reflexively. _Stay with me_. Instead, he forced his voice to remain even as he said, "Next time we bump into each other, let's hope it's someplace…a little more normal."

The smile sparkled and her lashes lowered prettily. "Definitely," she promised.

"Till the next time, then," Leon responded, and there was a promise in his voice, too, although he was unsure if he were making it to her, or to himself.

_I'll see you again._

Abruptly, there was nothing more to say, and he nodded, once, before turning and jogging towards the chopper. He didn't turn back to see if she were watching him depart; let her think he was in a hurry to get to his debriefing. Let her think that it was just time for him to be on his way.

Really, it was just that he was tired of watching _her_ walk away from _him_, and if that meant he had to leave first, then he'd leave first.

It seemed silly to be tired of a sight he'd seen only once. But once had been once too many.

Still, something in him had leapt like a flame at the sight of her, smiling that devil-may-care smile, just as steely and capable as he remembered. It had nothing to do with the fact that she looked just as breathlessly pretty as she had that first night, or the fact that he'd been haunted by her memory for years only to walk through a door and find her there one not-so-very-special day—these were all facts he noticed much later on, when he'd given himself time to.

No, the first thought that had come to his mind had simply been, _Real. You were real, you're real, you're here, I didn't imagine it…_

This was not unusual. There had been nights when he'd wondered if Claire had simply never been there at all, if she'd been a helpful figment of his imagination, assisting him in dealing with a traumatizing situation. And really, there had been no one around to argue the point. Sherry was gone—if she'd ever been there, either—and all he had left were isolated sentences from files that had long been buried deeper than Army Intelligence had hidden the Ark of the Covenant, memories of a Browning Hi-Power that he'd given away. He had no evidence, nothing to assure him that she'd ever, ever been there, save the occasional rare text message or email, the even rarer occasional phone call. Some days he had to reach so deep to remember her voice that he confused it with his own anima.

There was only one consistent reminder of her that he carried with him all the time—he never worried about losing it, for he wore it on his shoulder, etched forever into his skin. She hadn't opened the wound, but she'd bound it closed and sealed it that first night. His to carry, his forever—the first hint that this would be his life from now on.

There was no normal…

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><p>1998<p>

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><p>"You're letting this get to you, now let's just <em>cope<em>," Claire hissed, ponytail swaying like an angry cobra. "We just need to be cool, act like everything is normal."

"Claire, have you completely forgotten the last thirty-two hours?" Leon shot back. "There is no normal."

"Leon, _please_," Claire said, and for the first time that night, Leon saw uncertainty in her stance, her weight shifting from one booted foot to the other. "I'm taking you to the hospital."

"You know we can't do that," Leon said, and while he tried to sound firm, his voice was ragged at the edges from fatigue and the dull, throbbing ache in his shoulder that had been steadily sharpening as the night wore on. "They'll be watching for that. For all we know, they've already given our descriptions out."

"Not yet, they won't do that—not yet," Claire breathed, shaking her head, cream-soda voice leaping almost an entire octave with stress. Leon felt suddenly, fiercely sorry for the both of them, for their speed in adapting to the situation, for the practicality that now forced them to distrust all but each other. There was no need to question who "they" were, and neither acknowledged the seeming ridiculousness of assuming a hospital trip would result in their capture by mysterious forces. This was the world now, and it wasn't a question of what would happen, but when. She moved towards him, as if she'd physically drag him out to the car they'd stolen, still parked in the lot. "We still have some time—"

"We are _out_ of time." He shook his head, resisting the urge to clutch at his aching shoulder. He'd waited until Sherry had gone into the shower to even bring this up, and every minute Claire stalled him was a minute closer to the younger girl walking in on something she didn't need to see. "It has to be now."

Claire was pale. She shook her head absently, wide, startled eyes trained on him. "There has to be another way." She reached for him again, and he met her hands with his own, threading his fingers through hers, forcing them gently down.

"Claire," he said, softly but urgently, squeezing her hands in his. "You've got to know that if there was another way, I would never ask you to do this."

Her eyes darkened; she knew. She took another shuddery breath, but he could see her steeling herself, teeth gritting over quick sips of air as she contemplated his request.

She'd come to the city with a blade on her shoulder, a sharp combat knife with grinning teeth that made Leon wonder what other scrapes she got herself into when he wasn't around. Posing like a curvy female Rambo, she'd hurled that knife with the pride of practice to save him from a walking corpse, laughing with delight at her victory as though the entire world hadn't turned dark and gone mad all around them. While he'd watched in paralytic awe, wondering if she were an angel or just a psychopath, she'd yanked the knife easily out of the zombie's rotting chest, cleaned it on possibly the only clean corner of its shirttail and sheathed it fiercely, reaching her free hand out for him. That knife had accompanied her all the way out of the city.

Now he held it out to her by its sheath. "Partner," he entreated quietly. "I need your help."

His use of the honorific was completely unfair, as well as being unkind, and it worked—Claire took the knife slowly, unable to refuse him. A memory of a dead woman flashed briefly behind his eyes—a woman who had tricked him, had used his own good nature and sense of loyalty against him. Now he was what she was—he was doing the same thing to Claire. It was catching, he realized sickly. Desperation, deception, it was all spreading, like an…

Thinking of the word "infection" jerked him back to the situation at hand. He was only leaning on her so hard because he truly needed the help. He needed _her_ help; there was no one but her.

"It's okay," he promised.

Claire's mouth bent in a sudden smirk, and he admired the spark of bravery in her eyes, a spark he was already familiar with. "You're only saying that because I haven't started yet." She glanced towards the minifridge beneath the counter. "I wish we'd thought to get some ice before. Wait here. I'll go down to the machine."

"That'll take too long," Leon argued, jerking his head in the direction of the bathroom. Beyond the closed door, the hiss of running water could be heard. "I don't want her to see anything else that might upset her." He sighed. "Wish I could give you the same courtesy, but…"

She shook her head. "Don't worry about me. I'm worried about _you_. Without icing it, this is really going to hurt."

"It's going to hurt anyway," Leon said, his shoulder throbbing in anticipation. "We've got to just do it."

Claire shuddered almost imperceptibly, and then her shoulders relaxed. She rolled her neck, as if steeling herself, and Leon did not envy her her task. Unsheathing the knife smartly, she pointed its sharp tip at the bed. "Okay, handsome, on your back, shirt off."

_That's my girl_, he thought before he could stop himself. She was doing it again, adapting, bluffing her way through the undesirable situation with bravado, and he was happy to join in if it would distract them both from the grisly task they were about to perform. "Oooh, baby. And I didn't even have to buy you dinner."

She snickered, rummaging in the nightstand drawer, pushing aside the worn King James bible to find what she really wanted—two candle stubs, likely left in case of a blackout. They were melted down almost to nothing and their wicks were singed, but there was nothing better at hand. Flicking open her brother's lighter, Claire lit the taller of the stubs, dipping the tip of the blade slowly into the weak flame. "Idiot. You _did_ buy me dinner."

"Double cheeseburgers. How romantic," he said, reaching back to grasp the shoulders of the cheap t-shirt he'd bought at Wal-Mart. He noticed Claire's eyes flicker to him as he pulled it over his head, but his view of her was blocked by the fabric and when he tossed it aside, she was at the nightstand, removing the plastic wrap from the disposable cups that had been provided by the motel, her back to him.

"One of my chicken nuggets _was_ shaped like a heart…" As she turned, he saw her with another thing they'd bought before stopping for the night—a bottle of cheap vodka. She nodded at him as she poured it into the plastic cups. "Bandage too, please. We would've needed to change it about now anyway."

Leon agreed, unraveling the bloody gauze and tossing it into the wastebasket beside the bed. Claire slid one knee across the worn, pilly bedspread and handed him one of the plastic cups. She held the other and the neck of the bottle of vodka in her other hand, carefully placing the bottle on the nightstand as she joined him on the bed. "Scoot over, Slim, and drink that down. Hope you don't mind if I join you. My nerves are…"

"Shot. Ha, ha," he said, taking the plastic cup and squinting down at it. "I think you got more in your glass than I did."

"If we make it through this, you can have the rest of the bottle," she promised. "Okay, post time. And…go."

Together, they knocked back the shots. The vodka burned going down, and Leon wrinkled his nose, putting his cup on the nightstand and lying back on the bed. "Gah. That tastes like what it cost."

Tossing her own cup aside, Claire seized the bottle from the nightstand. "And good thing, too. Cheap vodka's the best for—_this_."

"This" was sloshing the vodka onto his wound, which made him clamp his teeth on a howl of broken expletives. Claire swung a leg over him and tipped the bottle again, leaning a hand on his good shoulder to hold him down.

"_Christ_ on a crutch," Leon growled, twisting away from her as much as he could.

"Sorry. There. There. Done. Here," she said, offering him the bottle. Tilting his head up, he took another swig of the vodka, then relaxed as much as he was able with every nerve ending afire.

"Okay," Claire breathed, still astride him, "it's all over but the screaming. One more time. Are you sure about this?"

Leon watched her rise and fall with his already labored breathing, his good arm reaching up to brace against the headboard. "Go ahead. I'm ready."

The knifetip was cool against his heated skin and Claire hesitated, tongue flickering nervously over her lips.

"I _am_," Leon insisted, and she tightened her mouth almost imperceptibly before deftly twisting the knifetip where she needed it.

That was a lie. There was no way for either one of them to be ready for what had to be done. Claire was as careful as she could be, but even still, the first time she pushed the tip of the knife into the wound he almost bucked her off, and she was forced to yank the knife away so she didn't accidentally drag it across his chest. Claire alternately muttered curses and apologies in her velvet voice, her strong thighs constricting against his hips as she straddled him, her ponytail licking at his bare skin when she leaned in close. Under different circumstances that feeling might have been pleasurable; now he was simply grateful that she wasn't allowing him to get away from her before her bloody task was complete.

Not then or ever would Leon be able to accurately pinpoint how long it took Claire to dig the bullet out of his shoulder. It could have been fifteen minutes; it could have been an hour. For a brief time, he was able to speak only in profanity. Claire didn't pay any more attention to the petitions to God or the garbled venom trickling from his gritted teeth than she did to the formless words of comfort issuing from her own lips; her full focus was on the ragged hole in his shoulder and the knife in her hands.

"Oh, you _bitch_," Leon snarled without meaning to as Claire pushed the knife a fraction of an inch deeper. "Wait—wait wait wait—I didn't mean that—"

"I know," Claire soothed. "I know. Almost got it."

"Keep saying almost, almost—_aaaaahh_," he growled as she probed again. "God damn mother fucking son of a…" He twisted his torso, pressing his good hand hard against the headboard to keep from simply rolling them both off the bed. "Forget it—stop being so careful and just—_Jesus, _Mary and—_enough_, just—" Sagging back into the pillows, he took a shuddering breath. "You're right. This was a stupid idea."

"It was _your_ idea," Claire said, taking advantage of the momentary cease in his struggles to try again. "If you don't like your ideas, stop having them!" And then she twisted the knifepoint, tilted towards her, and pain flickered white across his vision and new heat flooded his shoulder.

"I've got it!" Claire cheered. "I've almost got it. Hang in there, Leon, I swear to God it's almost out."

"I'm sorry I called you a bitch," he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut.

"I forgive you. Stay still and hold on."

The pain rushed to fill a sudden void in his skin, as if all the hours carrying the bullet around had made his body lonely for it, like Stockholm syndrome. He suppressed a wild urge to giggle, and wondered what it felt like to go into shock.

"Got it. _Got it_." Claire's voice was fierce with victory; she raised a bloody hand to the light, holding an indiscriminate misshapen something between two fingertips. Leon let his eyes drift to half-mast, seeing her through a red haze of pain and fatigue. She let her weight settle back on him as she rode his exhausted breath, brushing one hand against her cheek, idly smearing his blood across her skin. She tilted her head, stormsky gaze still severe.

"Thank you," he whispered.

She shook her head. "Not finished yet." She had the blade at the candle flame again, tilting it far more than he thought was necessary, heating far too much of it. He willed himself not to be hypnotized by the sight of the blade dipping in and out of the fire; he knew if he closed his eyes he wouldn't open them again for who knew how long.

"Hey, don't do that," he said idly, unable to comprehend her actions under the weight of the day. "Where's the…give me the vodka."

"There isn't any more…" Claire's head turned to glance at the empty bottle beside the still-burning candle, but not before seeing Leon wince reflexively. Turning back, her expression of concentration melted into a look of impossible tenderness.

Shaking her head, she said softly, "You've been brave enough for one night. For the rest of your life." Bracing her left hand against his shoulder, she leaned in closer.

He managed to smile. "All in a day's work."

She didn't smile back, just gave him that fragile look as she bent over him. "So brave," she repeated. "My hero—" And then pain, worse than the sharp pain of the knife edge, pain that ate down into the bones of his shoulder and vibrated. He started up, a yell surging in his throat, but she silenced it with a press of her mouth to his, a kiss that burned like the flat of the blade against his wound. He swore he could feel the skin melting together over the hole in his shoulder, her mouth fierce and demanding. Finally, he heard the dull sound of the blade hitting the carpeted floor as it slipped from her fingers, and then the pain flooded his nerves to replace her kiss as she pulled away.

Claire rolled off his lap, sighing. Dizzily, he reached for her, wanting the comfort of her slight weight against him once more, but his arms felt leaden and dropped back to rest at his sides. Claire's back was to him, her head turned over her shoulder to apologize to him. "I'm sorry. And you're going to have a scar. But it's easier than trying to stitch it up or something." She tried a smile. "I flunked home ec."

He smiled, letting his eyes drift closed. "I'll bet you never took home ec."

He could hear her own smile in her voice and he knew he'd guessed correctly. "Go to sleep, soldier. Sorry I don't have anything to give you."

While Leon was pretty sure she had meant painkillers, he finally let his fingers drift to his shoulder, exploring the tortured edges of the wound. "You gave me something, angel wings." It was the first time he'd ever called her by the nickname.

He stretched his good arm out, palm open, and like she were reading his mind, Claire lay carefully beside him. He circled the arm around her and she pressed her cheek against his uninjured shoulder, one arm slung comfortingly across his chest.

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><p><span>2005<span>

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><p>Claire smiled wryly, thinking it was only fair that this time, she accompanied the minor to safety while <em>he<em> rode off into the sunset. Still, his parting words had given her the barest flicker of hope—although she had no idea what would be considered "a little more normal" in their lives. Perhaps she'd crash through a restaurant window on a jump line to save him from a date that wasn't going well, or maybe he'd come into her hospital room disguised as a doctor to assist her in escaping from her next physical by smuggling her out on a gurney in a body bag. There was no way of knowing when she'd see him next, or how, but she did know one thing—she _would_ see him again.

Some things didn't change…

"Who is that man, anyway?" Rani had padded silently up to watch the chopper depart, slipping her hand into Claire's. The redhead was unsure if the girl were looking for comfort, or knew instinctively that Claire herself might need some.

Smiling down at her tiny, completed mission, Claire gave the little girl's hand a squeeze. "That's my hero," she explained as they walked back to the waiting car. "That's the bravest man I've ever met."

Some things never changed.

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><p><strong><span>Author's Notes:<span>**

**Acronyms: **S.W.A.K. is simply shorthand for "sealed with a kiss". It sounded much nicer than "I have to cauterize this as best I can using what we have and it will probably get infected anyway". This is how I know I'm old—when young writers think "blood is passionate and nursing someone is romantic", I'm thinking "infection and blood-borne pathogens".

**On what NOT to do when you've been shot: **As I mentioned in my intro, my screenwriting professor opened our Screenwriting class, which was a hell of a lot of fun (I still have twenty pages of a screenplay that I thought was sort of cute) by saying that every story is allowed **ONE**, and only one, unbelievable premise. It's like when Spider-Man saves Peter Griffin on _Family Guy_—everybody gets one. Inserting any more leaps of faith into a story or screenplay is simply asking too much of your audience. That being said, my unbelievable premise is this—that it is a good and necessary idea to remove a bullet oneself when on the lam. _**Idiot alert!**_ This is **not** a good idea. **Ever!** Yes, bullet wounds hurt, and they slow you down, and they can get infected. Know what else bullet wounds do? They **bleed**! Yes, in the long term bullets need to be removed from bullet wounds, but in the short term, they actually staunch the blood loss by remaining in place if the wound is not a through-and-through. And that is why it's not a good idea to remove a bullet yourself. If in reality Claire attempted to remove the bullet in Leon's shoulder with a hunting knife, she'd have caused far more pain, possibly muscle damage, increased the possibility of infection _and_ reopened the wound, introducing the possibility of exsanguination. **If you are unlucky enough to get shot and attempt to remove the bullet yourself, you will lose a LOT of blood, and you will deserve it.** Should anyone be unfortunate enough to get shot, go to the hospital and have a professional get the bullet out. It's not worth dying over just so you can pretend you're G.I. Joe at the bar (and even the Joes aren't going to let Lady Jaye take any bullets out of them with her javelins. They don't have a strict dress code, but with the exception of Shipwreck, they're not morons).

Everybody gets **ONE!** ***^_^***

If it wasn't for **Cloudwalker**, I'd never get anything done. I hope she never finds out that my Evil Overlordess health plan doesn't cover the eventual brain damage she'll sustain from beta-reading my work.


End file.
